A truth teller, scribe and manic rambler living with Depression, BPD and PTSD while picking up the pieces of my beautiful Bipolar life. My scars don't define me. It's the grace (sometimes), and gratitude (always) in which I handle my chaos that does. Welcome to my messy, amazing life!

Monday, October 26, 2015

I See Myself In Her

This past week has been very hard for me. I've had several things happen that have triggered painful memories. I have been trying as hard as I can to get out of this depressive state. This morning is better. I spent quite a bit of time meditating last night and I made a commitment to "begin again" sort of speak. So many things have happened that have reminded me of my past, the loss, trauma and abandonment. I have learned to mostly manage my depression so I am still relatively productive, however, I do have moments when I find myself being unable to move, get out of bed or provide myself the self care that I need. I should get in to see my therapist, but I have conveniently made myself too busy to get this done. The main issue is that we are at that place where we are "exploring" my childhood and attempting to replace traumatic memories with acceptance and forgiveness. This is usually the point I have trouble being consistent with my therapy. I never quite realize how hard it is for me to really go there. I can talk about my past with others with very little emotion and I begin to think I've reached the point of acceptance. Yet when I'm with my therapist, so many emotions come gushing out. The pain is almost unbearable. Thus, I realize that I am just that good at stuffing the "ugly" somewhere deep inside of me until the dam breaks. It always amazes me because I feel like I'm really good at tapping into other people's trauma and providing advice and management techniques along with my own experiences to help them. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I could take my own advice?

So, I want to start with pictures. I have several pictures that have been passed down to me; pictures of me as a baby and my mom. In these pictures I'm smiling and my mom seems happy. The interesting part is that I don't think she has any of these pictures. I believe she either left them with my dad or my dad somehow just ended up with them. I kind of recall her saying once that he "took them". I find myself looking at them every now and then and I wonder if she even has memories of those times. Does she remember what I looked like as a baby? Does she smile when she thinks of those "first" moments? When I realize that she probably doesn't because she is absolutely NOT sentimental, it's like a break in my heart. Not that I'm heartbroken, more like it's one of the cracks that ultimately lead to the complete shatter.

I have pictures of her before I was born as well. She is so beautiful in them. I see myself in her. She has that smile, but haunted eyes. Was this the moment that she consciously knew that she would never be the same because of her own traumatic experiences, her own mental illness? Or did she have the highest of hopes that she would move past that, fall in love, have children, succeed in her education and her career and grow old knowing that she made mistakes but having no regrets?

I want to believe this. It would make her "story" more acceptable, I guess. However, something inside me says that she never had those kind of hopes. Something tells me she held so much anger in those years and a desperate need to escape herself. When I came into this world, I was just another reminder of something she could never truly love, because "love" was an emotion she left behind on a dirty floor, in some secret place, somewhere in the dark.